


Animal Instincts

by Surina_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surina_Black/pseuds/Surina_Black
Summary: Remus Lupin's only just heard the news of his old once-friend's escape from Azkaban, and he isn't sure how to resolve the warring feelings of betrayal and outright loss that are threatening to drown him. And so, he does what any man in his situation would: he goes out for a drink, in the hopes that he can find a way to make it through the night,Artemis Carrow is a bounty hunter on the Ministry's payroll, and while she makes a living hunting down ghouls, werewolves, and assorted miscreants, she really just wants a night off, and maybe a good lay. However, the man she meets in a Muggle club is not who he seems at first, and while she does get that good lay, he ultimately leads her down a path of adventure, danger, intrigue, and one incredible bounty that she never expected.Tags are for future content. There is no sexual content in the first chapter, but this will eventually be RL/OFC, SB/OFC, RL/SB, and a general mix of the three.This is my first foray into any kind of erotic writing, so please be kind.





	Animal Instincts

I never expected to find an unregistered werewolf in that sticky, godforsaken Muggle nightclub; I was, strictly-speaking, off-duty, and that’s my excuse for what happened. I went in with my wand tucked carefully into the side of my boot, ears and eyes on the alert purely out of instinct, but really I was looking for one thing and one thing only: a bloody drink.

I didn’t really like nightclubs anymore, not by then, not once I’d hit the ripe old age of twenty-six, and I _definitely_ didn’t like Muggle bars, where I had to keep my wand hidden and rely on less finessed methods if a problem came up; but when you’re a bounty hunter on the Ministry of Magic’s payroll, and you actually want a night _off_ from wrangling the miscreants of the magical world, there’s precious few places you can safely get blasted.

I wove my way to the bar with a practised, singular purpose. I caught a few pairs of eyes on my arse as I went, and that was all right, so long as they kept their hands to themselves; As a relatively attractive blonde who kept up on my physical fitness -- had to, for the job -- I’d long since perfected my warning glare, but it wasn’t _always_ an effective deterrent. For the times it wasn’t, I had two backup plans, which I always tried to execute in order: first, the sharp heel of my boot to their nearest body part, and second, my knife -- or my wand, depending on the establishment -- to their bloody throat. I don’t particularly enjoy violence, like my brother and sister do, but as a matter of necessity, I am very good at it.

“Gin and tonic,” I tell the bartender, over the blitzing hum of whatever godawful music the kids were listening to these days, “Heavy on the gin, yeah? And give me Hendricks, none of that bloody bathtub shite I know you’re pouring for the pups.”

The music died down for an instant -- a messy transition between songs -- and I heard a soft, spluttering cough beside me. I looked up, and that was where the trouble started: that was when I noticed the man I’d sat down beside, the man that -- aside from me -- was easily the only soul in the whole goddamn place over twenty years of age.

“It’s funny --,” the man said, and then his mouth kept moving while the music started again, abruptly; I’m bloody good at a lot of things, but I can’t read lips. Never did have the knack for it, and this man’s mouth moved softly, indistinctly. I shook my head, tilting my ear slightly in his direction.

I don’t know why I did it, really; he certainly wasn’t the first bloke to start chatting me up at the bar on a night off. Wasn’t even close to the best-looking, neither -- but he had this softly grizzled look that reminded me sharply that he was an _actual_ adult, not one of these fresh-faced little wankers who always wanted to try and snag a piece of me and never knew what to do with it once they got it, and he’d laughed at my joke, which I always found mollifying, and to top it all off, he was drinking Hendrick’s, too.

I leaned over, touching the back of his hand in a motion that set a spark up my arm and -- though I wouldn’t know it for a long time to come -- changed the course of a lot more than just that particular night.

“Sorry, love,” I hollered, near his ear; I noticed from here, that even in the flattering half-light of the club, he was going grey. Still, since the bloke on my other side hardly looked like he was out of nappies, that seemed like an asset more than anything else. “Couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh,” the man said, after his eyebrows had gone up in a slight arch -- I’d sparked him, too, when I touched his hand, or perhaps he was surprised I was talking to him. I hoped it was the latter; sure, it was vain, but I liked it when men knew it when I was a bit out of their league. Made me more likely to root for the underdog, if you catch my drift.

“I said,” he turned his head slightly, so I could hear him, “Funny you should call them pups -- the young man on your other side was howling at the disco ball just five minutes ago.”

The bartender slid my drink over. I hooked a finger around the straw, pulling it into my mouth, and took a big, long sip -- and then, promptly, coughed and spluttered, just like the grizzly-gray man beside me.

“Fuck,” I muttered, doing my best to recover; I shook my shoulders out, and exhaled another little cough. “I really can handle my liquor, you know,” I said, to know one in particular, “Got a bloody lemon seed caught in my throat.”

“I’m certain I wouldn’t presume to question your ability to handle gin,” the man beside me said; or at least, I think he did. Bloody music was too goddamn loud. Seemed every time I came into a place like this, I felt more and more out of place. Maybe it was a sign that I, like grizzled-grey man, was getting too fucking old.

“Good call, that,” I said, feeling like I had to holler even though he was close enough to touch, “Might be the last question you ever asked.”

Grizzle-grey man looked at me directly, then; I saw that despite the greying hair and a couple of lines around his mouth, he was actually a good bit younger than I’d initially thought. Smooth skin, mostly; bright brown eyes. Sharp expression. Not bad looking, honestly. I guessed, now that I had a really good look at him, that he was probably only about thirty-five. So, older but not _old_.

“Well, now, that would be a shame,” the man said, lifting his own glass; by the look of it, he had a gin and tonic too, but he evidently couldn’t be bothered with his straw. I saw it, sitting among a few drops of the drink, on the sticky surface of the bar, while he lifted the glass, and drained most of it. “Since there’s another question I’d rather ask you.”

 _Ah, fuck_. Well, that _had_ been fun; but now he was going to ask for my number -- and since ‘owl’ wasn’t a number, that couldn’t go anywhere, even if I’d wanted it to. And besides, who did he think he was? He was cute enough, and he was the only bloke in here old enough to possibly know how to handle his equipment longer than we’d been talking, but that was still under five minutes. What kind of lady did he think I was? Merlin’s bloody cock, he didn’t even know whatever fake _name_ I’d be using that night.

“Let me guess,” I sighed. There went the only possibly decent option for a conversation that night. I supposed I’d best finish my gin, after this, and sod off. Another night drinking alone in my flat, it was looking like. Brilliant. “You want to ask me my number.” I yanked my straw round again, and took a big inhale, thankfully sans lemon seed this time. “Or maybe, no, you’re going to try and play the gentleman first, ask me my name, my sign, whether I need a ride home?”

The man’s mouth twitched, and fuck, it was pleasing; I found myself wishing he hadn’t come on so strong, so soon. I could have done interesting things with that mouth, if he’d played his cards a bit closer to his chest long enough for me to get good and drunk.

Of course, for that scenario to have had a chance of playing out, I was starting to think I’d need a much higher tolerance for that godawful blitzy-pop music the club was playing. I’d almost rather have had a Caterwauling Charm going off in my ear.

“By my count, that would be a minimum of three questions,” the man said, turning his mouth up crookedly, “And none of them would answer what I really want to know, at the moment.”

Oh? The game was suddenly on, again; I shifted a bit closer, placing my elbow on the bar, and I decided to make this collected, clever-mouthed greying man sweat a bit.

“What is it you want to know, then, love?” I asked, shifting my leg forward, just in case; he didn’t seem like the type to start trouble, but I made my living off capturing people who ‘didn’t seem like the type’, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

“How much,” the man said, so quietly I had to lean towards him to hear, “Do you think we would need to bribe the DJ to change the music?”

I felt myself grin. Oh, well played, grizzled-grey man; well-played indeed.

“I don’t know,” I said, leaning even a bit closer than I really had to. “Have we settled on bribery, then? ‘Cause honestly, I’ve had more success with blackmail.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” the man said, “As the truth is, I’ve only got enough money on me for my next drink, and I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

“Tell you what,” I said; I lifted my glass and made a show of sucking the rest of it down. “You get him to change the music, and your next drink is on me; hell, you get him to put on some Aerosmith, and I’ll pay your whole bloody tab.”

The man’s mouth flickered, again, and suddenly I _really_ hoped he would be successful.

“You’re on.”

He lifted his glass, draining the rest of it in a single swig; and then, he tried not to look stupid as an ice cube hit him square in the nose. I was kind of rooting for him at that point, so I pretended not to notice, and watched him get up, picking a careful path through the gyrating, youthful, horny little wankers this club seemed to belong to.

It took all of three seconds for someone else to take his seat; a stringy, pimply-faced lad in a black leather jacket despite the muggy, heavy August heat outside; evidently, he lived in a different climate zone than the rest of us. He had a friend beside him who at least was dressed for the weather, even if he was wearing a Savage Garden T-shirt, which told me all I needed to know about _him_.

“Wotcher, darling,” the pimply lad said, leaning his palm against the edge of the bar and trying to look down my top with a look I’m sure he thought was sneaky, “Fancy a drink?”

“As you can see, I’ve already got one. I’m not interested in another, and actually, there’s someone sitting there.”

The lad blinked, and then he shuffled his way closer. I frowned, but I didn’t feel the need to reach down to my boot or into any of my other clever little hiding spots, just yet.

“See, I don’t think you understand,” the lad said, and he smirked, and stopped trying to pretend to look anywhere but my tits, “I think you’re fit, and I’m going to buy you a drink.”

I snorted. “Oh. Is that so?”

“Oh, aye, it’s so,” he said, he glanced behind him, at his friend, who also shuffled a bit closer, making to box me in. That was a bloody mistake; I smiled thinly, to let them know it.

“M’gonna buy you one,” the lad said with far more confidence than he had any right feeling, “And you’re gonna drink it, and then you’re gonna come home with me --”

“You might want to re-think that plan,” I said, shifting slightly; I angled my knee towards his friend, and brought my left arm a bit closer to my body.

“And then you’re gonna tell all your lady friends what a grand night you had, with Butchy and Big O,” his friend piped up, and the two of them sniggered darkly; and then, I saw him palm something, a tiny green capsule, and _then_ I got bloody angry.

 _So much for a night off_ , I remember thinking, and then, I leapt off my barstool -- hadn’t been planning on working and I had the wrong shoes on so the heel of my boot caught in the rung of the stool and tripped me up a bit, causing my knee to miss Savage Garden’s balls by just a hair -- but I caught my balance, and Pimply’s throat in my left hand, at the same time.

“Hey!” Savage Garden yelled, and I felt his fingers hook into the crook of my elbow. I sent it jerking backwards, into his ribcage, and then I aimed the heel of my blasted useless boot at his shin; judging by the _yelp_ that managed to penetrate the incessant, thumping music, I connected well enough.

Pimply was panicking, even though I was -- against my better judgment -- letting the wanker breath just fine. His eyes went wide, and he was babbling so incoherently that a spot of drool leaked out of his mouth and dripped onto my fingers; once he saw that, he started spitting frantically, as if that would make me let go of him. Spit never bothered me; neither did blood. I kept my grip, just long enough to make my point, and also, evidently for the bouncer to notice that there was a commotion happening that had nothing to do with the shitty music.

The bouncer ripped Pimply out of my grip, and the two of them started rattling on; I’d attacked them, unprovoked, I’d threatened to kill them, blah blah blah. I’d have laughed at their sudden evaporated egos and let them be, if I hadn’t seen that flash of green in Savage Garden’s palm. I snatched at it, but of course it was empty now; I dug my thumbnail into the centre of his palm, making him yelp again, and look at me.

“What’s the matter with you?” Savage Garden bleated, “Get _off_ me, you mad bitch!”

“Give me the pills,” I said; I saw him blanch, saw his eyes dart to his right-hand pocket, the side of him that was furthest from me, closest to the bouncer, who was still trying to determine exactly who was getting thrown out of the club in the next three seconds.

“I _said_ ,” when Savage Garden just looked back at me stupidly, “ _Give me the bloody pills._ ”

“I don’t have any!” he whined, yanking his hand back; I let him, and then I lunged swiftly for the pocket. He yelped again, and the bouncer growled and snagged my elbow, but I came up with a little baggie of green pills, loosely knotted at the top, which I brandished at the bouncer a bit more self-righteous than I should’ve been proud of. It was just like landing a really good bounty; I tried so hard to be cool, but fuck, I got bloody _excited_.

“You see, these fuckers are planning on drugging someone,” I told the bouncer. His brow furrowed, and he aimed his glower at Pimply and Savage Garden in turn, though he didn’t immediately let go of _me_. I righted that particular wrong, snatching my arm back with a practised twist that allowed me to slip easily through his fingers.

“No, no we weren’t,” Pimply babbled, “The drugs are for us, we were gonna party later --”

“With tranquilisers?” I lifted my brow smartly. “Some party.”

“ _Out_ ,” the bouncer growled, evidently weary of trying to figure out whose fault the whole thing had been, “All of you, _now_. And give me those pills --”

Pimply and Savage Garden were all too happy to oblige; they practically tripped over each other, and about a dozen other people dancing, in their hurry to put the place -- and me, I chose to think smugly -- behind them.

“Sorry, mate,” I said, pulling them back just out of his reach, “But I think it’s only right that their disposal is handled by the intended victim, don’t you?”

I felt someone approaching, suddenly; purposefully, not one of those gyrating adolescents. I glanced over my shoulder with one eye, still keeping the other on the bouncer and making sure the Tweedle-dipshits really had taken off.

It was Not-So-Grizzled-Grey man; fuck, I’d completely forgotten about him, hadn’t I? Judging by the still-awful music, his mission hadn’t gone so well.

“I don’t think so,” the bouncer said, “I think you ought to give them to me.”

“Right, right,” I said, nodding, as my new friend hovered by my shoulder, presumably trying to see if and how he fit into this interaction, “And I respect your opinion -- I do -- but I was only asking for it to be polite. I’ve got no intention of giving them over to you. See, I don’t _know_ you. I don’t know that you’re not going to take them and do exactly the same thing these wankers were planning on, so I’m going to keep them, I’m afraid.”

I let him puzzle over my speech for a minute, and then I let my gaze slide again to my new friend Grey, “How did it go?” I asked him, in a sporting tone, “Did you get anywhere?”

“I received a polite invitation to leave this establishment,” Grey reported, and I smirked.

“What a coincidence,” I said, “I’m pretty sure _I’m_ about to get an _impolite_ invitation to leave.”

Grey nodded, as if he’d already taken the same inventory of my little situation. “In that case,” he said, quite gallantly, “Shall we?”

“Before they figure out we haven’t paid our tabs?” I muttered; Grey flushed slightly, but I grinned. “You bet your bloody arse we shall.”

We did; the bouncer made another half-hearted attempt to snag my elbow, but I slipped free again, and slipped the baggie of pills into my --

 _Well, fuck_. I wasn’t wearing anything with pockets. I’d been so caught up in my foolish idea of a night off that I’d worn impractical shoes _and_ a bloody skirt. I wondered just how much of a show I’d given the place, when I’d kicked ol’ Savage Garden in the shins.

I shifted into another motion, curling the baggie into my palm and trying to look like I hadn’t just been trying to shove it into a non-existent pocket, but Grey held his palm out, brow up; his mouth was flickering again, _damn it_.

“If you’d like me to hold that for you, for now,” Grey said, “I’d be happy to offer something else as collateral, so you know I’ll return it -- something you don’t need a pocket to hold. My watch, perhaps?”

It was my turn to raise a brow. “Your watch is shite,” I said, bluntly, “No telling whether you’d even want it back; and as it happens, I’ve got plenty of places to put things, even without pockets.”

Grey blinked, and then flushed again. I grinned, and bent down, sliding the baggie into the shaft of my boot -- the left one, not the one where my wand was stashed -- and then straightened.

He was staring at me, when I rose, but not in any of the places I’d grown to expect, from men in bars -- or just outside bars, I supposed. That slick, not-quite-too-old man was looking _directly_ into my face, and that’s what I’d go on to blame for what happened _next_.

“Reckon I still owe you a drink, for your efforts,” I said, “I know a pub a couple of streets over -- it’s shitty and small and I’m fairly sure they water down the ale, but it’s quiet.”

“I’d be delighted,” Grey said, and then, as if he’d somehow guessed my internal name for him and didn’t like it, he added: “My name’s Remus, by the way.”

“Remus?” I lifted a brow, and started walking, in the direction of the aforementioned pub. I tried to tell myself I hadn’t chosen it specifically because of its proximity to my flat, and I tried to remember whether I’d left anything out that a Muggle would find odd.

“Have you got a brother called Romulus, then?” I cracked, and Remus smirked.

“That’s most certainly the first time I’ve ever heard that joke,” he said, lightly, “But no, I don’t.”

I grinned sheepishly. “I imagine you get that awful joke about as often as I get awful pickup lines,” I said, and I flicked through my internal catalogue of false names. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like giving him one. “I’m Artemis.”

“Artemis?” Remus repeated, “That’s not a name you hear every day.”

“Actually,” I quipped, “I _do_ hear it every day, when I answer my fi--” _Don’t say fireplace, you idiot._ “Phone,” I finished. I didn’t slip up often, but when I did, it was pretty much always in a rush to drop a clever line.

Remus chuckled, but he was looking at me oddly, and it made me wonder if he had heard my near-miss. I had to distract him.

“Anyway, Remus, you’re one to talk,” I said, “Don’t exactly see that one at the top of the baby name lists, either. This is the place, by the way.”

We reached the pub; a tiny, dingy affair with possibly more cobwebs than patrons, even on a Friday night. Still, like I’d promised, it was quiet. A couple of old geezers hunched over the bar, and a handful of rickety tables that were nearly always empty, because everyone that frequented this place generally liked to be as close to the taps as possible. Still, I’d never had a hard time here with any of the regulars, and that was worth picking the occasional fly out of my drink.

Scraggly Kent, the barkeep, knew me well enough to know I liked to be left alone, when I was out for a drink, or at least when I was _here_ for a drink, but he thunked a couple of pints down wordlessly in front of us, without so much as a raised eyebrow. Good man, Kent.

“I took the liberty,” I told Remus, when he eyed the chipped mug that had been clapped down in front of him, “Of ordering you the finest ale in the house.”

Remus tilted his head, eyeing the bar, and its single tap.

“Seems to me it’s the only ale in the house.”

“Sharp eye you’ve got,” I smirked. “It is; which also makes it the finest.”

We bantered like that back and forth for quite awhile. Remus was mild-mannered, and soft with his humour, but damn if it wasn’t sharp, nonetheless. It wasn’t like a date, or a random bar hookup, or anything like that. It was like meeting an old friend, like we were school mates who hadn’t seen each other in a long, long time.

I found myself wondering what house he’d have been in, if he’d gone to Hogwarts, which wasn’t something I ever thought about with any Muggle I’d met before. I’d have pegged him for a Hufflepuff that first moment, in the nightclub, but now, I wasn’t so sure. I found myself really wondering, really trying to imagine it, as if he could have actually been a wizard, and not some boring bloody accountant, or whatever he probably was.

“Let me ask you something, Remus,” I said, after we were a couple of pints in, “What led you to that blasted nightclub earlier? Looking for a pick-me-up, were you? Or just a good spot of gin?”

I was curious, but fuck, I was also still thinking about the House question. I was having a bit more fun with it, in my head, than I really ought to have. I figured his answer might shed some light on my impossible hypothetical.

“I could ask you the same question,” Remus countered, and I smirked. _Ravenclaw._

“You could,” I said, “But you didn’t. I was first.”

“I suppose you’ve got me there.”

He lifted up his glass, took a long and somehow thoughtful sip.

“I suppose you’ve deduced by now that the club you and I met in isn’t exactly my usual sort of haunt,” Remus hedged. I grinned.

“No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

Remus’ mouth twitched again, and _oh fuck Merlin_ , it wasn’t like we were old friends; it was like we were old _flames_. I was starting to feel like we were going to take off to the metaphorical barn after this, for one last roll in the hay for old times’ sake. I wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, either.

“Well,” Remus finally said, working the words carefully around and out of his mouth, “I went there because it’s exactly the sort of place I used to go with… with a very old, very dear friend. I never wanted to, mind you, but my friend… always had a way of convincing me to try things I thought I had no interest in.”

“Ah, Remus, that’s shite luck,” I said, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Remus blinked, visibly startled. “Erm. Sorry for what?”

I wrapped my fingers around my glass, idly rubbing the sweat off the sides. “Well,” I said, “You went because of your friend, but you also went without him -- or her -- which must mean that either he isn’t around anymore, or he isn’t your friend anymore. Either way…” I shrugged, sympathetically. “It’s shite.”

“Ah,” Remus said, and I thought I saw his shoulders relax, somewhat. “I see. Yes, you’re correct, of course. Our friendship is very far in the past; but this person has been on my mind a lot, these past few days -- recent events, you might say -- and so I thought I’d go and try to recreate a memory from the good old days.”

I lifted my glass then, and drained it. I set it down on the table, a bit harder than I meant to. Maybe I was a bit miffed; Remus’ tale had the makings of a sad story, and honestly, it was touching that he’d really only wanted a bit of company, tonight. Up until the past half hour or so, I’d have been relieved, probably, and pleased. But now that sex with my new friend Not-So-Grizzled Grey was out of the picture, I found myself suddenly disappointed in that fact.

“So,” Remus said, presently, “What led you to that particular, erm, ‘blasted establishment’ tonight?”

“Nothing like as noble as your story,” I told him, offhand. “I guess I just wanted a night off. Wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t accidentally run into work. Didn’t really work out the way hoped, though; I guess your plans didn’t, either.”

Remus gave me that odd look of his again, then, and he slid his half-full mug aside. He fixed those sharp brown eyes on me directly, and he leaned slightly over the rickety table, setting his chair creaking.

“On the contrary, Artemis; my plans worked out much better than I could have imagined, at the outset of the evening. You see…”

He sighed, and there was something in it that was awfully sad, awfully close. Whatever had happened between this friend and him, it didn’t look like anything that time, or any earthly force, was going to heal. I saw the crease of a frown in his brow, and I felt a little kick of anger for this unknown friend and his (or her) unknown crimes.

“I hoped to be reminded of the friendship I had with S-- someone,” he stuttered, slightly; was it the ale, or was he getting emotional? “And, I was -- because I met this fantastically fun and funny woman named Artemis, who -- and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, in the context of what I’ve already told you -- who is about as like the memory of my old friend as I could have hoped to find in all of London."

“Oh, right, I get it,” I said, shrewdly (or so I thought), “Your friend is a woman, isn’t she? An --” and now I hated to use the phrase in this context, but there it was, “An old flame, is she?”

“Now, here is where I really hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” Remus said, with a small, ironic sort of smile, “But no, this friend was not a woman; and though there may have been a few bouts of experimentation in our youth, our relationship was, for the most part, _not_ a sexual one. He was one of my best friends, and I’m having a very hard time accepting lately that the man I knew is gone.”

“Bouts of experimentation?” I said, because I didn’t know this new friend of mine well enough to want to get into any of the rest of what he’d said, “Now that _is_ the bedrock of any great friendship.”

“I am convinced that S-- that, erm, my old friend would have said the same thing. In fact, I think he may have, at some point.”

I opened my mouth to ask for a bit more detail, despite myself; I was getting mighty curious, by then, as to what this friend of his could have done, to break Remus down so much -- but I think he sensed it, Muggly-little Ravenclaw-wannabe that he was, and he shut it down quickly, by abruptly changing the topic back round to me.

“So, Artemis,” he said, lightly, “You went out tonight to get away from work. Judging from what I saw of your run-in with your would-be assaulters in the club, and by the silhouette of the pocket knife you’ve got stashed at the side of your bra, I’d say you’re a law enforcement officer of some kind?”

I blinked, and then -- I’m still embarrassed to admit it, even this much later -- my jaw just _dropped_.

“Hang on,” I said, “How did you see the knife -- I never once caught you looking at my tits, and believe me, I was on the alert!”

Remus grinned, a bit wolfishly. “It’s true, you never caught me.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said, but honestly, I was a bit impressed. I pride myself on catching the details of other people's’ actions, especially when they concern me.

“In a manner of speaking,” Remus said, inexplicably, and then: “So. Was I correct?”

 _Huh?_ For a minute, I honestly had no idea what he was talking about; then I remembered his prediction, his assessment of my career.

“More or less,” I said, “It’s, uh -- a bit of an undercover assignment.”

Yeah, it was undercover, all right; under the Statute of Secrecy, and about a dozen other laws, and not to _mention_ , even among wizarding folk, I did my best to keep my identity under wraps most of the time, because -- funny thing -- fugitives tend to avoid you when they know you stand to make anywhere from five hundred to ten thousand Galleons for bringing them in.

“Well,” Remus said, with another twitch of that goddamn lupine little mouth, and an almost comically solemn nod, “You can count on my silence. After all, you have been my good friend, for the night.”

“You’re right,” I said, and I could feel the rushing of a sudden decision, and a whole hell of a lot more anticipation than I ever expected to feel, for this grey-flecked Muggle I’d happened to sit beside at a shitty dance club, “I have been.”

It was my turn, now, to push my glass aside, and to lean over the table.

“So, Remus,” I said, feeling an impish grin slide over my face, “How about, in the spirit of our good friendship, we engage in a quick _bout of experimentation_?”

I almost thought he might refuse, tit-knife and wolfish smile or no; he was that difficult of a read, that I honestly still wasn’t sure if he was truly interested. But luck was on my side, after all -- or so I’d thought -- and he smiled, an open invitation.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, “I know a place -- it’s not far from here --”

“So do I,” I told him, lifting a brow. “My flat. Let me settle up with Kent, and then we can go. I’m ready if you are.”

And that was how it started; that was how I ended up bringing Remus Lupin back to my flat, and that was where this whole story really got going.


End file.
